


i can't think of who i was

by hollow_city



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Comic Book Science, Drug Use, Human Experimentation, M/M, Major Character Injury, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, POV Alternating, Shapeshifting, Tim Drake is Robin, briefly, jason was never adopted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 13:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11761086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollow_city/pseuds/hollow_city
Summary: living behind the faces of strangers does not go without consequence. jason todd, shapeshifter and secret vigilante, has used the faces of real and fake people alike, but rarely his own. and now, after so much time, he doesn't remember what that's supposed to look like. but through thunderstorms, cupcakes, and tim drake, he might just be able to piece it back together.





	i can't think of who i was

**Author's Note:**

> ugh. i've gotten ten hours of sleep in the last four days and now i just want to write sappy stupid things that don't have too much angst (i failed in the latter department). this is very au, by the way. i'd like to put warnings here, too, so i can be more in depth about them: this does include human experimentation, which entails needles, blood, and injuries. while nothing is graphically portrayed, i felt that this warning is necessary. the title is from the song caught in the middle by paramore.

When Jason Todd was born, his family was already broken. His mother might've been ready for a child, but his father didn't want one. 

He lived in a home where his mother tried her damnedest to keep him healthy and safe, where his father floated in between prison and bars and only rarely home. 

It wasn't ideal, and his mother was suffering silently, greatly, but Jason didn't say anything. He acted like he was an innocent child who didn't know the evils of the world just yet. He wanted to give his mother at least that. And she fell for it.

But then she also fell for drugs. At first, she only used them here and there, when Jason wasn't home. When he wasn't around to see her hit rock bottom. But he knew. He found the needles and the bottles and the bags. And yet, he didn't say anything. Because what could he do?

He was seven. He couldn't do anything. 

But it didn't make anything better. She didn't smile more, she didn't feel happier, and he could tell. He didn't say anything.

And then his father was killed in prison, and his mother didn't bother to hide the drugs anymore. She didn't wait for him to leave for school or to go to sleep. Sometimes she would forget he was there, and sometimes she would yell and scream and throw things, and then she would break down in tears and beg for his forgiveness.

And it hurt. But he didn't say anything. He forgave her time and time again and held her while she cried. He refused to cry during these times, but then she would go back to her bedroom and he would go to his and he would cry until he felt like throwing up and his eyes burned. 

But he didn't say anything. He let her think he was solid and steady because still, she deserved at least that. 

But then it became too much, and she took too much, and he found himself on his knees, holding her body while he cried. He didn't want to believe that she was gone, and he tried to bring her back, but she wouldn't come back. Even with the drugs and the screaming and yelling, she was his world. His mom. And she left him. 

Their new neighbor with a much better moral compass than the others called the police when she heard his screaming, while the others passed it off as an everyday occurrence. Jason knew this because the young woman began to pound on his door and ask if everything was okay.

And no. Everything was not okay. He was eight years old and he was all alone with nothing but a little over a hundred dollars and a sweatshirt to his name. 

So with the sound of sirens in the background, he grabbed his school backpack and he filled it with all of his clothes, stuffed in a few books, and secured safely in one of the inner pockets, his mother's favorite bracelet. It wasn't expensive and it wasn't anything special, but she loved it, and he needed  _something._ Something there with him. Right beside it, he put all of the money he could find. 

He took these things, and he ran. He knew what they would do to him if they found him. He knew he had no living relatives, and by some chance he did, they would never want him. He knew what would happen when they dropped him in the system. He couldn't let that happen.

And for the next three years, he lived in filthy alleyways and did dirty jobs that no one ever wants to do to get enough money to buy himself an apple or a piece of bread every once in a while. Sometimes, he splashed out and bought himself a new t-shirt.

It wasn't ideal, but he was alive, and he was okay. He would be fine, eventually. He liked to think that maybe if he did this long enough, he'd have a random stroke of luck, and suddenly, he would be living like the people he sees walk past his alleyway. Sure, most of them were nearing broke and close to losing their jobs, but they had food on the table every night and a bed to sleep in that wasn't made of cardboard boxes and dirty clothes. 

But that never did happen, and he was forced to do things that he never would've done before to make ends meet. And maybe it was his desperation that gave him the guts to jack Batman's tires, but in the end, he didn't mind, because he got those fuckers off of that obnoxious car, and he got away. It was a close call and Batman nearly caught him twice, but his remarkably small twelve-year-old frame managed to squeeze into spaces that Batman couldn't dream of getting his arm through. 

Jason made a pretty penny off of those. He bought himself a new sweatshirt, several sizes too big so he'd still have it when he grew. It was dark red and it was warm and he, although he would never admit to it, almost cried as he wore it that first night. He bought himself a real sandwich for the first time since his mother died and he spent two hours eating it, cherishing every bite because he knew it very well could be the last food he got for a week. He bought himself new shoes, off the clearance rack, because his old ones had holes in the heels and tears in the sides. He bought a blanket from the second-hand store for a few more dollars than he wanted to, but it was the warmest thing he'd touched in several years, and he found that maybe it would be worth it.

For the next couple of nights, he found that it  _was_ worth it. He was warm, he wasn't as hungry, and he almost smiled again.

But the world didn't spin to make Jason Todd happy, so the day after his thirteenth birthday, he found himself in the back of a van with his hands tied together almost painfully so and half of his face covered with haphazardly placed duct tape. He didn't try to struggle or try to escape because there was a woman with a harsh face and a shiny gun pointed at him.

He wishes he had tried to escape. Then maybe things wouldn't have turned out the way they did. 

They took him to a secluded part of Gotham that rarely saw a single soul, and they put him in a cell, and they gave him a number. He became an object.

He was one of many test subjects, varying in ages, sizes, heights, weights, there was every kind of person there. He was the only one like himself, though. He was the only boy his age, and the girl his age was returned to her cell with blank eyes and limbs that don't move anymore. She wouldn't talk to him anymore, either. Or maybe she couldn't, he wasn't able to tell.

For a while, maybe a month or two, he couldn't tell that either, they leave him alone. They shove shitty food through the hole in the door and give him a bucket of questionable water every morning. He felt foolish to even think about complaining. Yes, it was scary, yes, it was nervewracking waiting for them to come for him, and yes, it was traumatizing seeing them break so many people. But he had water and he had enough food to hide his ribs behind flesh and he had a three-inch thick mattress that was more comfortable than the cardboard boxes.

But this comfort is ripped from him one day, maybe three months after he gets there. They came slamming into his cell during the early hours of the morning (Was it morning? He still doesn't know. He hadn't seen the sun since he got there.) and dragged him out by the back collar of his shirt. He didn't struggle but he froze up and got a backhand to the face for his mistake.

He didn't do that again. He didn't like it, but the guards were far too many and far too powerful for him.

Jason didn't know what else he could do. He was forced to allow the stone-faced nurses and doctors poke at his skin and inject him with things that he couldn't pronounce, and eventually, he decided that something had to be done. He couldn't just sit on his ass and let this happen to him, or any of the other people in there. 

So he started to pay more attention. He would memorize the cycles with which the guards would patrol and he would keep track of the hallways they dragged him through for more testing. He began to wait until the ten minute period where they went unguarded to pull his bed aside and etch the lines into the stone. Eventually, he managed to build up a pretty impressive map, but really, he had no way of knowing if it was really even that accurate. He hoped it was.

But just because he had this map and this cycle did not mean he had any kind of plan on how to get out. He'd never been brought anywhere close to the exits, so he didn't know where those were, rendering his knowledge virtually useless. 

Everything changed the day he spent seven whole hours being injected with who knows what. He had always hated needles, especially after his mother began to use them to feed her addiction, but he began to get used to the feeling, considering how many times they'd been used on him. His hatred still burned, for he began to realize that the only purpose for them was to give or to take away. And for him, they had only ever taken things away. 

Taken away his mother. Taken away his blood. Taken away his humanity. 

This time, though, they injected something new into his veins. Something gold and something glowing. It burned like a thousand suns as it began to travel through his body, and his muscles seized and he clenched his teeth to keep from screaming.

_Don't scream. Don't cry. Don't show them you care. Don't let them break you. Don't be like the others._

He didn't scream and he didn't cry but he did pass out. When he finally woke up, he found that he'd been dumped on the floor of his cell with a bucket of water beside him. He couldn't stomach even that this time.

Everything felt wrong. He didn't know how long it had been since he was injected with that thing, but he did know that whatever it was, it wasn't agreeing with him. So he curled up on the stone floor and he waited it out. He couldn't do anything else. He had grown accustomed to waiting, so wait he did.

He no longer remembers how he discovered how to use what that injection gave him, but he remembers immediately panicking and hiding away. He remembers seeing his reflection in the questionable bucket of water and not seeing his own face. It was the face of the guard who stood watch a few feet from his cell.

Everything was a bit off but given the amount of time he'd spent studying that morally challenged guard, he knew it was him.

Jason tried everything he could to get his own face back and nearly made himself sick with how terrified he was. How was he supposed to feel, after having woken up with a face that wasn't his own?

After nearly three hours of rocking back and forth facing the corner, he was able to concentrate enough of his energy to shift his face back to his own. It wasn't easy, and it didn't go without any pain, but he did it. In fact, it hurt quite a bit. He felt every bone shift and the cartilage moving back into place, but it was worth the realization that came after.

It may have been terrifying, painful, and everything in between, but he had just changed his face to look like someone else. And that? That right there? That was his ticket out. If he could just figure out how to perfect this newfound skill, he would be out of there in no time. He knew the halls, he knew the guards, he knew their mannerisms, he could get himself out of there.

He made sure to never mention any of these things to anybody, and when the head doctor asked if he had experienced any changes, he shook his head and kept his face blank.

Because this could be used to his advantage, and he would not make himself their favorite lab rat.

Eventually, he learned that not only could he alter his face, he could alter every single part of himself. He could make himself taller, shorter, skinnier, heavier, more muscular, less so. The person on the inside stayed the same, and his physical capabilities never changed, but that didn't really matter to him. Because if he could somehow shift into the body of one of the guards and get their uniform, he could probably walk right out the door.

He hoped.

That's not exactly how it went, though. It was a lot messier than that. Of course, his plan went to shit the second he tried to enact it. He planned on tricking the guard outside into entering his cell, which would be when he could carefully craft himself to match and swap their clothes.

But no. They suddenly changed their meticulous schedule, like they'd found out that he'd caught on, and Jason was discovered in his cell with his forearm pressed against the guard's carotid. The guard hit the floor as soon as he let go, but he'd already changed himself to look like the man, and he knew he was fucked the second he saw the head doctor. He didn't even think as he grabbed the gun from the unconscious guard and lunged for the head doctor, knowing full well that he really had nothing to lose.

And fortunately, the guards taller stature really helped him, and he plowed straight into the doctor, sending them both to the ground.

The doctor still had that infuriatingly calm look, like he knew something Jason didn't. Like he knew that whatever Jason was doing was only going to end badly for him. 

But Jason didn't care. He didn't care and he was crying and he was only fourteen and he couldn't take it and he could feel every pinprick of the needle and he shot the doctor. In between the eyes. Because he couldn't let this man out into the world once he escaped. He couldn't let any of these people back into the real world, none of these guards of nurses or scientists deserved to live anymore.

But he didn't have a choice because the second the doctor was dead, he hit the ground running for the senior most guard. He doesn't remember killing her, but he knows he did because he took the keys from her cold corpse. But it didn't seem to matter at the moment, as he unlocked every cell and his brain filtered through the sobs of relief and the thanks and the cold silence from the severely broken.

There weren't many of them left. Maybe eight, excluding Jason. There had been twenty to start with, and the very thought made Jason's stomach turn, so he stopped thinking about it.

He escaped with the rest of them and he spent days wandering around in search of a way back home. A way back to Gotham. He didn't know where he was, how he got there, how far from  _home_ he was. It made his chest hurt and his feet were torn and bleeding from walking without any shoes for so long. But finally, finally, several days after he escaped, he found a map. It was tattered and stained and thrown away like garbage, but to him, it was precious.

It showed him that he was only a few miles outside of Gotham, and his hazy wandering strayed towards home. He hadn't been in the right state of mind during any of his wandering from the research facility, so he didn't register that his stomach was screaming for food and his eyes were burning from lack of blinking and his head felt like tiny bombs were going off inside because he hadn't slept in days. 

But when he finally saw the  _Welcome to Gotham City_ sign and Wayne Tower in the distance, he snapped out of it, and he fell to his knees, and he stared into the dirt.

He didn't know what to do. He couldn't just go back to the streets. He couldn't just act like nothing happened. He couldn't pretend that he was okay.

But. What could he do? He didn't have any family, any friends worth a damn, anywhere to return to. If he's honest, his alleyway has probably been taken up by someone else by now. 

He was only fourteen, he couldn't do anything like find a job or rent an apartment or get a driver's license. He couldn't do anything. But then he remembered that maybe Jason Todd couldn't do anything, but someone else could. He would just have to be someone else.

And really, what was Jason Todd ever good for anyway? Nothing, as far as he was concerned.

So he crafted a new identity. He stole some clothes and he wore them around while he studied the people of Gotham. He tried to pinpoint the best things in all of them, the most insignificant things that made them great. Eventually, he had an image in his head, and he made himself look just like that. 

He looked to be about twenty-two, with black hair, blue eyes, and tan skin. The only thing the  _real_ version of him had in common with this decoy was their skin color, and even then, it wasn't exact. 

He became James, the twenty-two-year-old cashier at some secondhand bookstore. It didn't pay a lot, but after some time, he had enough to rent an apartment, and he had a real home, a real place to stay at night.

When he first stood in the center of the fairly empty, fairly tiny apartment as fourteen-year-old Jason, he almost teared up but then didn't, because this wasn't something that should've been out of the ordinary. Besides, strong, tough people like him weren't supposed to cry anymore.

After about a year as _James_ , he had slowly filled the apartment with furniture and knick knacks and books, and it really was home. But he wasn't satisfied. It still haunted him that those people, those monsters, most likely got off free, even after all they did.

Sure, he managed to take out the man behind the operation, but it wasn't enough for him. It didn't make him feel better. He knew he needed to do something else. He also knew that Gotham was a cesspool of filth. Even with Batman, and Batgirl, and Robin, it wasn't clean, and it wasn't safe.

But he could change that. He could learn to fight, and he could be like them, and he would never even need a mask because his face _is_ a mask. So that's what he did. He learned to fight, he learned how to use guns, he learned how to fight with knives and swords, all from less than admirable means, but he learned, and by the time he was sixteen, he was fairly certain he knew what he was doing. 

 _Jason_ became one of a few names when this time came around.  _James_ was still around whenever he was in public, but when he was out at night, turning in petty thieves and tracking down serial killers, he was  _Hood_. Black hair, black eyes, ghostly pale skin, tall stature, large muscles. He was intimidating, and he certainly did not like sixteen.

And the more he operated as  _Hood_ and lived as  _James_ , the less  _Jason_ came around. The less he wanted to be  _Jason_. He didn't see the need. There was no point. It didn't take concentration to be either of his alternate identities because once he shifted, it wouldn't change until he made a conscious effort. He just enjoyed the privileges and power his other identities brought much more.

Hood became nearly as well known as Batman, because while he never killed ( _Jason_ could not kill because then he would be as bad as those monsters who did this to him), he was much more brutal, and didn't ever pull his punches. He wasn't afraid to knock out each and every tooth and break limbs beyond repair. But he never crossed that line.

Both of these things drew Batman to him. He didn't want that attention, but he should've seen it coming.

When he was out one night as Hood, a shadow fell over the alley, immediately catching his attention. When he discovered that it was the goddamn Batman coming to scare him shitless because he's operating without his permission or supervision, he turned tail and ran. His 'superhero costume' consisted of nothing but civilian accessible body armor and a leather jacket, but still no mask. He still didn't need it...

 

* * *

 

...And this threw Bruce off. Why would this man be running around at night, fighting criminals, and run the risk of being identified? He didn't even make  _any_ attempt to hide who he was. Nothing like any of his fellow heroes. Most all of them cherished their secret identities and protected them at all costs.

But despite these thoughts, Bruce still accessed the security cameras outside the restaurant near where they came into contact and ran the man through facial recognition. According to his  _state of the art_ software, the man did not exist. Anywhere. Ever. He didn't even have several matching characteristics.

The first thing he assumed was that this person was either very, very good at disappearing, or he'd just had some really good facial reconstruction surgery. 

But then Tim mumbled, "What if he's a shapeshifter?" around a mouthful of his sandwich, mostly as a joke, and it all made sense. 

Something seemed slightly off about the man. Like he didn't quite know how to carry himself properly. If he was living inside a body that wasn't what he was used to, that's exactly how he would feel. And if he shifted into someone that never existed and never really would, then, of course, he would have no need for a mask.

It just seemed so easy, but it also made it nearly impossible to track him down, and that made it...

 

* * *

 

...Brilliant. 

But now, here _Hood_ is, sitting on his roof, wondering what exactly he's supposed to do now. Batman's after him, and that's dangerous. 

Batman is good, way better than Hood will ever be without proper training, and that's intimidating. 

So here he sits, two years after the research facility, looking out over the city he calls home, and protects with his life... waiting for Robin to say something so he doesn't have to.

Finally, he decides to suck it up and say something. "I know you're there. What the hell do you want?"

Robin's breath hitches, but he moves to stand beside Hood anyway, at a safe distance.

"Batman wants to talk to you, but you wouldn't let him, so I figured I'd give it a shot," Robin says, and despite the confident cover, Hood can clearly tell he's nervous. 

"Okay," he says flatly, before repeating, "so what the hell do you want?"

Robin shifts his feet and crosses his arms. 

"I bet you can figure out that B doesn't like people operating without knowing everything about them," Robin starts, and Hood snorts at the understatement, "and he wants to know how you do what you did."

"And what is it that I did?"

Robin tilts his head to the side, and his hair falls over his forehead. The kid can't be more than fifteen, and definitely not older than  _Jason_.

"You technically don't exist. In any database. At all. So you're either really good with technology, really in debt because of your plastic surgery, or you're a shapeshifter."

Hood's entire body tenses up, without his permission, and that's all Robin needs for an answer. 

"I guess that means you won't tell me who you really are?" Robin asks, and Hood snorts again, if not a little tighter this time. "Yeah, I didn't think so. Can you at least tell me how old you really are?"

Hood considers it for a second, before deciding that it really doesn't matter. They can't go through every single sixteen-year-old kid in Gotham and somehow find him.

"Sixteen," he says quietly, and Robin's mouth tightens. He can't figure out why, because he's pretty sure the two of them are relatively the same age. He didn't think Robin would have any issue with him being a crime-fighter at such an age. 

"Why are you doing this, then?" Robin asks, and Hood frowns. 

"Because I can. Which means I should," he replies, like it's the simplest thing in the world.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, and it's not entirely uncomfortable, but it's not wonderful.

Finally, Robin speaks up again.

"So you won't show me what you really look like?" he questions, almost sullenly. 

Hood almost turns to give him a deadpan look but freezes in his spot before he can. He can't show Robin what  _Jason_ looks like. He can't show Robin. He can't. 

Because he doesn't know what Jason looks like. He can't remember what he looks like. He can't remember his own face. 

What kind of  _person_ forgets their  _own face_?

His stomach lurches, and he's running away before he knows what he's doing. He doesn't hear Robin calling after him with apologies. He doesn't feel the stairs beneath his feet or the doorknob against his fingers or the sink beneath his palms. 

He stares at  _Hood_ in the mirror and he tries to make himself  _Jason_ again, but he can't. He can't remember what that's supposed to be, and he can't go back to who he  _is_ anymore. He can be James or he can be Hood, but he can no longer be Jason, and that rips something straight out of his chest that he hadn't realized was there.

It hurts and he feels sick to his stomach and he sleeps on the bathroom floor that night.

 

* * *

 

The next time he sees Robin, he runs. And the time after that. And no matter how many times Robin chases after him and asks to talk, he runs.

Until finally, one day, he stops, and he can't run anymore. He doesn't have the energy because he's put all of that energy into remembering  _Jason_.

"Can we talk?" Robin pants after finally catching up to him, and he sounds defeated before he even gets an answer.

"Yes," Hood says, much to his surprise. "I need to."

Robin looks shocked but sits down on the roof and he waits for Hood to join him. They sit together, side by side, with their knees almost touching, until Hood finally gathers the courage to speak.

"I wanna show you what I really look like," he admits, and the way Robin's face lights up makes his chest tighten. "But I can't."

The immediate crestfallen look makes his chest hurt, instead. 

"Because of secret identities?" he asks sadly, and Jason shakes his head. That only serves to confuse the younger boy. "But... why, then?"

Jason brings his hands up and brushes his fingers over the features that aren't his own. 

"Because I... I just..." he makes a tiny frustrated noise, before he blurts out, "I can't remember!"

Robin gapes at him for a moment before regaining his composure and blinking owlishly at him instead. 

"You don't remember what you look like? Did you hit your head? Are you okay?" Robin sounds so concerned that it makes his heart ache. 

Jason shakes his head quickly and runs a hand down Hood's face. Then he ducks his head, his face burning shamefully.

"I'm fine. I haven't used it in almost a year, and I can't remember what it was supposed to be."

When he finally says it, it feels like a weight has been dragged from his shoulders, but it also hurts way more than it should. It hurts, because how could he let this happen? How could he forget something like that? Sure, he spent more time as James and Hood, but Jason was just as important, if not more. It was who he was for fourteen years of his life, and it matters. 

But maybe nobody told him that, so he forgot about that, too.

Robin looks heartbroken, but beneath that, there's a small flame of determination that Jason can't quite make sense of. 

He doesn't say anything about it, and they sit there for a little while longer while Robin asks questions about his birthday (August sixteenth), his hair color (reddish brown), his family (he says nothing, Robin seems to understand anyway). 

They leave it at that, with Robin saying that he has to get back home, and Jason doesn't want to feel jealous of the boy for actually having a place that feels like home, but he does.

And he doesn't say anything about it.

 

* * *

 

They meet a few more times and become more and more comfortable around each other as time passes. Jason tells Robin little things about himself that he can still remember, and Robin tells him little things about his life without compromising his identity. Not like Jason would try to find out who he was without his permission, though. 

This time, it's thundering off in the distance, and Robin is telling him that it's supposed to start raining soon. They both roll their eyes simultaneously. It's Gotham. Of course, it's going to rain.

But then it does, and there's something about the way the water sounds hitting the roof and the pavement and the way the rain smells because he remembers something.

He remembers laughing with his mother as they got caught in the rain and then running down the sidewalk to get out of it. Their hands were intertwined and she was smiling down at him and her eyes were sparkling, and he was proud because those eyes looked like his.

And he remembers that Jason's eyes are green. He remembers what they look like; where they crease when he smiles, how long his eyelashes are, what shade of green they are. 

He doesn't say this to Robin, but the younger boy eyes him suspiciously the rest of the time they spend together. 

The next time he remembers something, it's August sixteenth, and Robin is holding a cupcake out to him. It's chocolate cake with white frosting, and it has a small number seventeen written on it in red frosting. 

It's the kindest thing anyone's done for him in years, and he remembers. He remembers turning five and his mother saving up to buy him a small cake. His father wasn't there, but she was, and she took a Polaroid picture of him as he was blowing out the candles. She could only afford a Polaroid camera, and he almost couldn't blow out the candles because he smiling so wide.

And he remembers what Jason's smile looks like. He remembers that his teeth are fairly straight for never having been to the dentist, that his lips are full and pink, every crease in his cheeks caused by it. 

He doesn't say this to Robin, either, but the smile on Hood's face seems to be enough for the boy. 

And because of these things that Robin is doing for him, over the course of a few months, he begins to remember who Jason Todd is. What he looks like.

One night, when it's particularly cold and dark, he remembers.

Remembers exactly what Jason Todd looks like. His reddish hair, his bright green eyes, his wide smile, the few freckles dusted across his cheeks, the shape of his jaw, the slope of his nose. He remembers, and Hood starts crying because he can't help it. 

After over a year of feeling helplessly lost, like he'd been on the same treasure hunt for a torturous amount of time, he finally feels like he's found the prize at the end.

He shows up on  _their_ roof an hour later than usual, and Robin is getting antsy and worried. He almost doesn't hear the footsteps coming up behind him over his own, but then he does, and he spins around with wide eyes and an open mouth, and what he sees is not what he expected.

Standing at the edge of the roof is  _Jason Todd._ Not James, not Hood, but Jason. Everything is how it used to be, and Jason is smiling, and Robin knows that it's him, because that smile is constant. It doesn't matter what kind of mouth he wears, Jason always smiles the same no matter what.

And if Jason's heart is already thudding painfully from happiness, then it's excruciating when Robin kisses him, ducks behind the top of the stairwell, and pulls his own mask off.

Because if Jason could look that deep in his own mind to take his off, then Tim Drake sure as hell could do it, too.

(It's two days later that Jason finally agrees to talk to Batman, who's still a little bit pissy that Tim let Jason in on the secret like that. Tim doesn't care. Mr. Wayne and Jason talk, and it's not as bad as he thought it would be. It's still scary as hell because he gets the protective dad talk, but he lives through it.)

(Mr. Wayne finds out about his living conditions and the words, " _you're welcome at the manor anytime_ ," make his heart sing, but he puts on his tough guy act and just settles for thanking him offhandedly, followed by a flippant, "whatever.") 

(He won't tell Tim, Mr. Wayne, Alfred [who has no issues with being the grandfatherly figure towards yet another boy], Dick [who has plenty of issues with him because Jason is dating his little brother], or Babs [who just thinks he's great] about what happened to him for a long time. It will be two years until he tells Tim, another three until he tells everyone else. He will admit that he'd killed those two in the facility, but Mr. Wayne won't hold it against him, and instead will simply silently simmer with fury.)

(Three weeks after that,  _Bruce_ will present Jason with a file, and he will help him bring in every single one of the people who were responsible for what happened to him, and as the last one is sentenced to life in prison, he will finally get that feeling that will have been ten years in the making. 

Satisfaction. Relief. _Happiness_.) 

**Author's Note:**

> afterthought: i wrote this all in one go and it didn't go at all how i thought i would. i tried to make jason as close to canon as possible, character-wise, but i also tried to change him to be how he would be had he never dealt with being robin, dying, etc. still not sure about this, but i'm posting it anyway.


End file.
